


Mercy

by Quilljoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ADWD gap filler, Canon Compliant, Canonically set between Theon's chapters 32-37, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Past/implied thramsay, Roose Bolton gets a POV and it's weird, Typical Bolton TWs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 05:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: Pain hurts all the more when laced with sweetness.In Barrow Hall, Roose Bolton rebuilds Theon into something he can use.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [INCBlackbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/INCBlackbird/gifts).



> Written for INCBlackbird's prompt "when Roose takes Reek away from Ramsay to make him presentable for the wedding, he has to spend a lot of time calming him down as he has panic attacks."  
> Hope I delivered! :D
> 
> Additional disclaimer: Medical advice might not be accurate. Reeks are best ~~tortured~~ treated by a certified professional. Do not try this at home.

 

> _I smile and I offer you something to drink_  
>  _In the hopes that a taste will remind you_  
>  _That poison goes better with grenadine_  
>  _That deceit's always lovely with lime_  
>  _That bitterness can be so sweet_  
>  _When it's served in the right place and at the right time_  
>  _– ThouShaltNot, True Love_

***

  
Lord Bolton had promised Barbrey Dustin a prince, yet all he'd given her was a madman.

She had grown impatient with the creature, as she called Theon, ever since she had provided him with a proper bedchamber in the Guest Wing, once he'd stopped crying. Much to her displeasure, the guards found him curled up against the floor, as far away from the fireplace as Theon could muster. Of all the offense paid to her, this was the one too great for her to ignore.

"Are the beds not to his liking?" Barbrey Dustin was not a woman giving to bemoaning, so the words cut sharp. A shame they missed the target completely. Theon Greyjoy had insisted on being called Reek from the night he'd arrived, refused to eat, and would not join them for supper, so Lady Dustin and Roose Bolton ate alone, not in the great dinning hall, but by a quiet spot in her library. "Surely the heir to the Seastone Chair is used to something better."

"Be grateful that stone is easier to clean than silken bedsheets."

"Speaking of that. I shall not abide by the smell any longer. Even my serving girls run in horror from his presence."

"You know of my son. Is it so strange that Lord Greyjoy needs some time?"

"I've waited less on better men."

"And how did they ever repay you?" The soothing tone of his words did little to appease the lady of Barrow Hall. A frown marred her forehead, twisting her otherwise elegant features into an unbecoming scowl. "Patience. He will see that Arya Stark is married on her home."

"We depart for Winterfell as soon as my men are done with the preparations, and I still fail to see all the pieces you've gathered here. Both lord and lady do nothing but cry all night."

Lady Dustin had all the personality her departed sister had not had. She was not in the wrong, but best allow her to think herself uniquely smart and apt at the game he was playing. With a sip of wine to wet her parched tongue, she moved on her argument, unoticing Roose would relent to her, regardless, not because she had power over him, but because theirs were the same concern.

"I cannot fault Lady Stark. Were I to marry a Bolton, a sharp file would be stitched to the inner side of my wedding gown." The wording elicited a genuine chuckle from Roose. "But the turncloak needs to play his part, else it all shall be for nothing."

"I will see that he's cleaned and cared for."

"He should also part bread with us, at least, if we expect to see him through a wedding feast."

And an easier task that would be, if Lady Dustin housed any meister in Barrow Hall, but Roose Bolton said nothing, least she nurse a grievance about some lost teeth on a lordling's mouth.

"Why, Lady Dustin, do you plan to fatten him?"

"Like a pig to slaughter."

"Let it not be said that you lack hospitality towards your guests."

"I cannot, in good conscience, allow a lord to be mistreated under my own roof." She rose her glass, eyes glinting under the candlelight. "Even if he's done nothing but cause me insult. So I trust you to deal with him... In any case, he's too craven to refuse you."

"Ah, but therein lies the problem. He's afraid of my son."

"Make him afraid of you, then. Or will you trap him with your promises, like you've done to us all?"

At this, Roose did nothing but smile. A clever woman did not show herself to be clever so easily, he thought. Barbrey's undoing would be her sharp tongue, not so much for the barbs she traded, but for the truth it brought, making it clear as daylight that she did not trust him as much as she pretended. Proof of their intimacy was the air of comfort surrounding them, conspiring together amongst books and, in between them, a decorative game of checkers. Family, they were. But she had not forgotten the deaths of her sister and nephew. Lady Dustin knew, as long as she mingled with him, she might as well be next.

Her resentment burned with every word and every glance. She was as transparent as glass.

"You know well, Lady Dustin. Mayhap kindness will be more welcome than any promise of pain."

"And if it does not," she gestured towards a third goblet, stationed on the table by a servant's sorry mistake, "there will always be wine."

"It's time someone afforded Lord Greyjoy some mercy," he said, eyeing the cup. Roose didn't move, but his mind was now far away, scheming not over the game board but with something far greater than checkers. Greater even than Theon Greyjoy and the mummer's farce of a marriage. "The Old Gods know he will not have any in a long, long time."

  
***

  
The guard stationed by Greyjoy's door was happy to be relieved of his service, and once Roose opened the door, he knew why. The sniveling boy was rocking back and forth by the corner of the room, certainly having scrambled there once he'd heard footsteps, while clawing marks stained the door and the stone floor with blood.

It wasn't a serious escape attempt, nor were marks on Theon's arms. He was scratching his own skin in his agony, and the soft fur lining the bed and the tapestries hanging from the walls seemed to be more agonizing than a lashing.

Roose didn't approach him, rather looking at the fireplace instead.

"Did they not lit the fire for you?"

Theon rubbed his own arms, but otherwise did not respond.

"Answer."

"Afraid I'd torch the place, my– m'lord."

Roose grabbed the poker, stirring the burnt pieces of wood left there by the previous occupant. A sudden flame shed some light in the room once Roose deemed to start fire, ignoring any other concern except Theon, who stopped rocking, afraid of the small kindness – or of finally being able to see himself, away from the shadows.

The turncloak still sported the same filthy rags Ramsay had given him, but most jarring had become what Ramsay had taken. The empty sockets where his fingers ought to be had been taken care of, but not before far too late, and for Theon to be able to walk, and ride, and even talk to him, given that the state of his mouth should be no better, spoke more of Greyjoy resilience than Ramsay's carnage.

"You know, you will have to give up on this, sooner or later."

"M'lord?"

It was nearly impossible to find the face beneath the flicker of the shadows. His hair and beard had grown and tangled. Bits and pieces of things Roose would rather not wonder clung to them. This was no way to treat a prince, even if said prince would have no realm to reign over – not if Roose had any say to it.

Touching the wineskin by his belt, Roose approached, softly as if approaching game he'd chased for very, very long.

"Say, it's been how long since you've had some wine? A meal to fill your belly?"

"I cannot, m'lord," he shook his head. Patience, Roose had asked of Lady Dustin. Now he must show it himself. Theon sniffled. "The food, it– Ramsay doesn't– It doesn't belong to me."

Crouching by him, Roose removed the cork on the wineskin, watching Theon's mouth water as he did. His lips were parched dry, filled with a rancid smell, now clouded by the wine's sweet perfume. Roose took a drink of it before offering Theon, who looked at it as if it'd been an elaborate trap. Theon recoiled, eyes darting back and forth, as he felt his hand moving of its own volition.

"The wine here belongs to the Lady of Barrow Hall, and you're scorning her by denying her gift."

"It's too much," he pleaded. "I'm– I'm Reek, it rhymes with freak."

"Your lips are cracking. The air in Barrowton is cold, you must warm yourself."

"He will know."

"Only if I tell him so."

"Don't make me. I'm nothing. A servant. Nothing. Ramsay's."

"Everything that belongs to Ramsay belongs to me."

Hunger and thirst could steal the terror away from the most cowardly man. Roose watched as the turncloak trembled, until his resolved crumpled and he moved forward, clutching on the wineskin as if it could deliver him from his misery.

And for the moment, it would.

Theon closed his eyes and drank. He drank until he could not anymore, until wine poured down his chin and his beard and his clothes, just another stain, he drank until he was taken by coughing and by spitting, wheezing and drowning in air once the skin became empty.

"Do you want another?" Roose asked. Theon was still holding onto it for dear life, his maimed hands pitiful, but not useless.

He was also terrified.

"It's alright, now," Roose took the wineskin away from Theon, prying it from him with a gentle yet firm touch. This was something Ramsay did not understand. Roose got up and Theon cowered, but Roose did nothing but turn away.

"Sleep. You might find the bed more comfortable than the floor, but if it's to your liking, nobody will chastise you for lying on the carpet."

Pain hurt all the more laced with sweetness – of this, his son could have an inkling of. But the real game was to know when to stop and walk away. When to force your way in, and when orders would be obeyed, or defied.

"I…"

"Do not scratch at the door again. Don't scratch at your arms, either. Did you hear me?"

"Yes, m'lord," Theon whimpered, softly. Still by the floor, but his mouth glistened red.

"I'll be back for you later. Worry, if you must. But know Lady Dustin and I have no reason to torment you further than my son has done."

Because pain, oh, pain could twist and turn you into so much, fear could make you into so much. But trust had to be acquired, if one were to ever get somewhere in life, even if the trust was meant as something only to be broken.

  
**

  
A flaying knife was meant to carve the person underneath it into what it truly was. Roose Bolton had seen his fair share of humans without layers of protection, and they were all the same underneath, the fear and the weakness; all men and women made of something fragile. How deep this truth was hidden, however, often depended on the one on the rack.

Ramsay hadn't used the knife for its intended purpose. He'd shaped Theon into something of his own making instead, as a renderer would boil fat into soap. There was nothing of the prince exposed. While his flesh had parted and the skin had been stripped out of his bones, while Ramsay had pried him open and let him fester, Theon Greyjoy remained tucked somewhere safe, where the world would not get to him and where no knife would cut him deep enough to part with truth. Roose's own son had assured to that.

That, too, could be undone. Roose preferred the knife for its simplistic beauty, but a hook on the end of a blade was not the only way to fish for an answer. Ramsay might've parted with some unsavory pieces, but there was enough of Greyjoy left, hidden under the surface, for Roose's job not to be an impossible feat. He'd called him "my lord", after all, Roose thought with a smile. His son was not bad of a butcher, but a butcher nonetheless, used to cutting into peasant girls. A prince was still a prince, no matter the rags he wore. And Greyjoys were, after all, a difficult bunch to kill.

Salt and stone, he thought. But Balon's eldest sons had perished under his banner, and Balon bent the knee. Now Theon Greyjoy's own effort had seen him delivered back into Roose Bolton's hands.

How terribly amusing was fate.

**

Theon Greyjoy did not scream when he saw the knife in his hands.

His eyes went big like a doe's yet no sound escaped past his lips. This, Roose thought, this is what he's used to, now. Panic marred his features, but the curve of his neck extended in offering, a jutting vein pulsing together with his fright. His lips were tight and colorless.

"This won't do," Roose spoke. He'd come to see Theon in the morrow, as he'd promised, extracting from Lady Dustin the time he needed to work him like he'd at a prisoner in his dungeons. "This won't do at all."

His displeasure prompted Theon into a whimper– "I'll be still," he promised. "Please."

When his hands coursed through Theon's hair, Theon kept his promise. There were bald patches where hair had been ripped from the root. His scalp was otherwise unmarred, but whatever had been left there was by no means better. Roose remembered the prince, sitting by Robb Stark with his feet lazily over the table. He remembered the foolish smile, the long, black hair.

Others would, too.

Should he find another prince for the Iron Islands, as he'd found himself a Stark lady? Or should he allow others to see his son's handiwork?

"Did you sleep?"

He found Theon awake already, not by the corner, but contemplating the ashes in the fireplace. A terrified serving girl had been urged inside to place there a basin of water, as equally untouched as the bread and cheese she'd placed early for him to break his fast that day. And so was this morning like the morning before, with a single difference: he was sitting in a chair, not in the floor, like a rat.

"No," Theon said, because he knew better than to lie. "Maybe. I don't know, m'lord, if it's dreams or reality…"

His eyes fluttered. He was not there, flickering in and out of it, when Roose took the knife to Theon's hair.

That sufficed.

"No!" His eyes shot open. And then he muttered softly, "No", again, "my lord, please", as if he'd finally realized who he was talking to.

"Squealing like that, one would think I took the knife to your throat."

"Please?" Theon was unsure when asking, as if he could not pinpoint if this was what he was supposed to beg for.

"Very well, then."

The shivering made it well impossible to shave Theon without cutting into him, but the hissing and the wince thereafter sounded much like comfort. With eyes shut and knuckles white from holding his place in the chair, Theon panted whenever Roose drew blood, and squeezed both his grip and his eyes tighter. It was the muttering, however, that made it near impossible for Roose to clean away the firm jaw hiding beneath the beard. "He won't like this," Theon whispered, "he won't like this he won't likethishewon-"

The muttering continued as Roose worked, and he might have cut him on purpose more than once, if only to make his job easier and more pleasurable, for the two of them. Punishment. As if Theon would be able to show Ramsay the scars and say, "See? I wanted no part of that". As if Ramsay would be so forgiving.

"You have a bigger role to play than you comprehend."

"He will be mad." Theon finally opened his eyes. Tears had glued his lashes together, making him blink multiple times before they could fall, tracing marks in the dirt of his cheeks.

"Yes, he will."

Theon didn't look happy at being right. Roose leaned closer to his shaking figure as if telling him a secret.

"It isn't him you have to be afraid of."

Shaving went much easier afterwards. Not even for how much he cried could Theon wipe away the lather from his face, and he was blissfully silent through the process. The creature Ramsay had created was docile enough under threats, which made shaving his beard and hair easy once the knife drew closer, but did not make Roose's task better.

There could hardly be any man in the Seven Kigdoms who wouldn't have cried upon seing that emaciated face on the mirror, knowing it was his own, but Theon dug his fingers into his scalp and howled like a wounded animal.

"It will look better by the time we arrive in Winterfell."

That, too, was the truth. Roose had done away with most of Theon's hair. A handsome youth once, Theon had long dark locks that rivaled his own, but were now by the floor, caked with mud, blood, and whatelse. Washing wouldn't have salvaged it. His head still held a good shape, nonetheless, and while one could see where his nose had been broken and where his jaw had been hit, it did not provoke the same disgust that mane of his did. Hunger had taken its toll on the boy, and without the hair, one could see his eyes had sunk and how hollow his cheeks were. But he was a Greyjoy alright. The sturdy look was there. For a curious second, once Theon had stopped sobbing in horror, Roose realized the torture endured had only made him look more like his family, whose women were hardly handsome enough to benefit the looks of their boys, and whose appearance consisted mostly of missing eyes, missing teeth, missing limbs, and scurvy.

And then Theon was crying again.

Ugly as his uncles, and just as mad as the mother.

Allanys cried after her boys were slayed. Her misery made her all the more beautiful. Her boys, her precious boys, born to plunder and pillage the North, but she could only see them as they were once, just children. She did not stay to see Balon hand over Theon, a whelp of a child, the same large eyes as hers', the same lovely hair and round face.

Theon jumped when Roose laid a hand to his shoulder. He coiled his back as if to make himself smaller, but there was only pressure there, slow but steady, and his body sagged with relief.

"Look at the mirror."

"I don't…"

The protest was half-hearted. Little reason was there to deny an order, and Ramsay must've taught him well. Theon wiped away his tears with the remains of his shirt, a rag in tatters Roose would not have used to clean the floor, and timidly rose his eyes.

"Who do you see?"

The question confused him. Theon's eyes slid towards his left, where Roose held him the mirror, as if looking for the correct answer, then rushed back towards their figures before looking at Roose again.

"Lord Roose of House Bolton." The words were slow, as if his teeth were aching particularly bad that evening. "And… me."

"Yes?"

He clenched his jaw before adding, resolute: "Reek."

Roose sighed. With one finger, he turned Theon's chin towards the mirror again. The boy struggled, but not much.

"Who do you see next to you?"

"Lord Bolton."

"Yes. Remember this. I am the true Lord Bolton, lord of the Dreadfort. Not my son. And he's not to set foot in Barrow Hall, under Lady Dustin's orders. Try again, Lord Greyjoy."

"I'm not him." For Theon, there were no more tears left. His eyes were red and his voice shrill, done with all the screaming – and how must he have screamed, down the Dreadfort's dungeons. There was no strength left to fight Lord Bolton, who held him in his grip and did no harm. The last time a blade had been close to his skin, well, back then, he'd had reason for all the crying. Now it was only the horror at facing the mirror and seeing what was left. "He died, my lord. Lay him to rest."

"What is dead may never die, Theon."  
  
"But let me."

Theon shuddered. He couldn't turn his head away from the sight as much as a wave could not stop itself from crashing against rock.

"Please, let me, my lord."

  
***

Afterwards, Theon became – if not docile – pliant enough that Roose could force him to stomach some soft cheese and bread. He'd still not hold down much food, having to water it down with ale, but only once Roose caught him by his face he understood much of his reluctance steamed from the state of his teeth. While Ramsay had taken a plier to Theon's mouth more than once, he'd been happy to let the broken teeth rot in place. Much of his initial progress with Theon was robbed when he'd to sit him by the chair again, drunk on the strongest spirit Lady Dustin could part with, and remove the jagged pieces.

"You promised not to hurt me." His head lolled to the side, spit and blood dripping from his mouth.

"I said no such thing." Roose pressed a clean cloth to his chin. "I promised you I had no ill intent. This is for your own good."

"M'own good." Theon spat. His mouth had filled with blood again, so Roose had to press a bowl to his lips. Theon missed it by half an inch. "Lord Ramsay's good to me. He never– He never hurt me without reason. Was I bad? I'll be whoever you want, m'lord. I can be Theon Greyjoy. Please, stop."

"You can withstand some more of this, I'm sure. Here," Roose brought a goblet to his lips. The alcohol in the stiff drink would sting and clean, but most importantly, it'd numb him. Theon latched onto it as a newborn child would to his mother's breast. "Drink some more if you cannot handle the pain. The more you talk, the longer it will last."

"I can, I can handle. Is that what you want? Tell him I was good. Tell him not to flay me anymore, m'lord. I've got more teeth for him to break."

The whining was becoming insufferable. Roose did what he could to salvage the rest of Theon's mouth. He was no meister, after all, and fixing was ever so much the trouble than breaking. If only Ramsay had been careful… How easy it'd have been, should he be the one by Theon's side as he conquered Winterfell. Theon whimpered and laughed as Roose extracted another rotten tooth. A scar here, some skin taken off there. Nothing that would show. The lordling had been so dim in his hopes of recognition that even Ramsay could fool him. But mingling business and pleasure was always his son's worst flaw, and now he had to undo the worst Ramsay inflicted. Perhaps Theon had been right, after all, and the Greyjoy Lord was long gone. Not many could endure this, he thought, the clanking of his tools scaring Theon into another fit of laughter. Roose dropped them by the metal tray, bringing water, this time, for him to rinse his mouth.

"You forget my kindness, Lord Greyjoy."

"Lord Ramsay's always been kind to me." Theon told him, eyes and lips and gaunt cheeks red, so much that, under the light of dawn, Roose could not tell if the face staring at him had been skinned. The flames in the fireplace crackled and casted shadows across the room. Wherever Lord Greyjoy was, the warmth could not reach him. "He can have another finger. A man can do with six."

"I'm done here, Theon. Tell me. How does it feel?"

"Hurts," he said, simply. Theon brought one maimed hand to his cheek. The work in his mouth had left his cheeks swollen. It was much an improvement on him. Meanwhile, Roose would feed him his name as one would feed a man grapes – one at a time, softly, waiting so that Theon Greyjoy would willingly accept it – and not so fast that he'd choke. The complaints had stopped, but the boy would not savor it. That, too, was alright. Roose didn't need for him to do nothing but agree.

"More than Ramsay?"

Theon didn't know what answer was expected of him, so he kept quiet. Nothing, from the broken bones to the hollow belly, indicated he was a fast learner.

"My son's treatment of you was undue. I might not be able of giving you your teeth back, or your toes back. But these are nothing; trifles. Your title is the only thing that matters."

"There was… more." Theon hung his head low.

"Your name – that, he can only take if you allow. Yet it's the only thing that can keep you safe."

"I have been good to him," he looked up. "That. That kept me safe."

"Count the teeth left in your mouth. Count your fingers." Roose did not wait for a servant to remove the bloodied rags and the tools away from Theon's view. He wrapped them up in cloth, taking them with him when he moved to the door. "When you decide you were not safe enough, come to me."

Roose Bolton left, sure there would be not a sleepless night until Theon sought for him. It was stunning for Roose to realize he'd have liked to keep him, that although cumbersome, this chore of his held some marvel. Were him not on a pressed time, he'd have liked to enjoy this charade, to see how much he could push, and how much the boy could withstand. Not the graceless torture of his son, who thought hacking meat away and having his guest sleep with the dogs to be cruelty, when true torture was in the hollow sound of Allanys weeping. Lords and ladies were of a different breed. A baseborn son like Ramsay would never understand it. This was why, between broken sobs and terrified screaming, Theon Greyjoy might still be whole.

***

Lord Bolton's predictions turned out to be right, as expected. A livid guard had him called, but Roose sent his message back. Were them to discuss as lords, he would not accept Theon reeking of peasant, unbefitting of his station.

"There's– There's nothing I can do," Theon said, at loss, finally staring at his rags as if realizing they were not a gift. Frail hands twisted at the hems, pulling them slightly away from his body for Theon to give them a second glance. His fingers twitched as he grasped the fabric. Roose frowned in thought until he realized what Theon was doing – he was caressing it. Not like someone checking the stitching for mistakes, but as someone afraid, unwilling to give away their only belonging.

"I will clothe you with silk and warm fur."

"I can't accept it… Lord Ramsay…"

"… is far from here, and will do as I command. Say, Lord Greyjoy. I've heard men from Iron Island only dress in what they've acquired in iron and blood."

"They do, m'lord."

"I think you've already paid your due, then."

Theon was still hesitant, however, only accepting with a shivering nod once Roose promised to keep his rags folded and tucked away, so that Ramsay would not punish him for losing them.

"I've dressed up as Theon, once," he said.

"Good. You should do it again. I will have you bathed before you can dress up in your new clothes."

Not even fear of punishment had the servant girls accept bathing Theon Greyjoy when the lady of Barrowton brought up the subject, nights prior. Roose had Lady Dustin whip a girl's hands for the insolence, but she accepted it in silence, eyes closed, knowing it'd be better than facing the mad creature upstairs. Roose feared Barbrey Dustin was the one instilling the repulse of Theon herself in her staff. With the revulsion she showed whenever passing by Theon's room, and the anger in her voice at their lack of progress, it was no surprise.

The clock was ticking. Soon they'd have snow, and it'd be impossible to move.

Ramsay waited. His bride waited and wept.

Roose extended his hand and took Theon's in it, leading him out of the door and into the hallways.

A far cry from both Winterfell's hot springs and the Dreadfort's modest bathing chamber, for the lord and lady's private use, Barrow Hall had something in between, for Lady Dustin and her late husband did not favor anything neither austere nor overtly lavish. It was a kindness of her part to allow Theon Greyjoy, as he were, to entertain the use of anything of hers, but mayhap the idea of Lord Bolton having to wash the turncloak's feet was too amusing for her to bemoan the misuse of her clawfoot bathing tub.

There were hot stones and warm water and a change of clothes for Theon, but there was also a mirror propped by the wall. Enough of a reminder to have him, startled, hide behind Roose. Lord Bolton would've felt something akin to mirth had the boy not started talking.

"Lord Ramsay will want me there," Theon's voice disappeared beneath a silent plea. Shivers came to him, in spite of Barrow Hall's solid walls. "He needs his Reek."

“Nonsense,” Roose said. “Ramsay’s to be wed. He will soon have something more of his interest than you.” When other men might’ve meant it as a cruel jape, Lord Bolton said it without affection.

"You don't know him." Color drained from his face. Theon regret his words as soon as they left his lips. "I'm– M'lord–"

Roose hardly ever looked after it but, when it came to Lord Greyjoy playing his part, defiance was exactly what he needed.

"You may as well be right," Lord Bolton granted him instead. "Duty has never quite agreed with him."

"Duty?"

"The girl is not to his liking, I assume. But now he's a lord, and lords get no say in such matters. She's far more than he deserves, in any case, and so is her claim."

Something came out of Theon's throat, far too quiet for him to register. Lord Bolton plucked Theon away from his cloak, which he'd been gripping at, and a meaningful glance was enough for Theon to speak louder.

"She's wrong."

Something of a smirk crossed his lips. Roose tightened his jaw. Ramsay had not flayed Theon's wits out of him. His common sense, perhaps, but given what he'd heard, Theon Greyjoy might never had any in the first place.

"What did you say, Theon? No," he stopped Theon once he made motion to move, "do not hide again."

"She's wrong." A squeak. "Her eyes. Someone will see."

"Lady Arya has not been seen for quite some time, and everyone who otherwise might know her is gone. I have you to thank for that."

"The steward's daughter. I remember."

Roose squeezed his shoulder. Theon winced as if it'd hurt, but the touch had been soft and he leant into it, closing his eyes and trembling. He breathed in once, twice. Only by the third time he managed to release the tension gripping him by the throat as Ramsay had probably done once, refusing to meet his eyes.

"You do. You're the only one that does. You'll see that your sister marry my son under Winterfell's trees, so that Stannis Baratheon comes for us and dies buried under the oncoming snow."

"Who will believe a turncloak's words?"

"You've laid waste to Winterfell, Lord Greyjoy. No one will question that you're giving Arya Stark's hand in marriage, just as no one has questioned who were those boys you've killed." A beat. Theon finally, finally looked up at him, as if realizing there were no secrets he could hide anymore. Not even who he truly was. No, not from the true lord of the Dreadfort. Roose Bolton smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. "Serve us in this, and when Stannis is defeated we will discuss how best to restore you to your father's seat."

Roose was under no impression Theon believed him, but he nodded anyway, like weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Know what a man wants, and you have him under your power. There was no power to be hand in Theon's hands other than what Roose had allowed him, but even a pawn that crossed the board could become the most powerful piece in a game. So Roose would send him back to his son, for another finger or two, and then finally his tongue. For now, however, warm water and some relief waited for Greyjoy.

"Relax." Theon did not. "This, at least, you've earned."

"I…" Hesitation still crossed his eyes when he looked at the bathtub.

"You've done good," Roose said, softly. "You've done good by me so far. Take care not to ruin it."

That undid him, at least. Tears rolled down his cheek. It wasn't the desperate sobbing Roose had grown used to; just tears, streaking their path down the filth in Theon's cheeks. With his gloved thumb, Roose wiped the grime and the tears away.

"I don't want you to see."

"There's nothing there that could surprise me," Roose said, darkly. "You're alive. I've seen far worse."

"Can't I do it… on my own? There's no need–"

"Lady Dustin fosters no meister beneath her roof. I need to see."

Theon's shoulders slumped. Lord Bolton pried his gloves from his fingers, folding them and placing them over the mirror, together with his cloak, as to cover it. The room had been growing warmer and humid by the minute, and he'd need his sleeves rolled up to help with the bathing. Theon took that as encouragement, or perhaps he'd resigned himself to his fate. When he took away the rags he wore as a shirt, Roose saw the mess his son had left behind.

There had been no method to his madness. There were ways to make someone suffer, and Ramsay had paid attention to none of them; Theon's torso a litany of scars that spoke not of reason but of uncontrolled rage. Not even the layer of filth covering his body hid the bruising, although they mingled, a canvas of flesh sporting beautiful blues that blossomed into purple, green, and red. The colors weren't quite as vibrant as if fresh, but time had them spread, turn other shades, create a vivid picture of the torture suffered and leaving - something - amongst all that had been torn from Theon.

There were cuts, scars, scratches and, most peculiar, a bite mark. It had been strong enough to leave a semi-circle around his nipple, the other one having been shredded into an unrecognizable nub of nibbled flesh. Theon's pale and miserable face became, if possible, even more pale and miserable. The thing on his chest itch, and his arm trembled to scratch at it when he wasn't looking, but by his face, twisted away, he'd very much like to forget.

"There are worse things."

"Yes," Theon said. "There are."

"Now. Your trousers, if you please."

It most certainly did not, but Theon unlaced his breeches, removing and folding them carefully as if to buy himself time. He bought, but time was expensive those days, more often than not, and there was little to give. Roose did not urge him on. He'd done his waiting, he could wait some more.

He would've lied if he told himself there was no curiosity as to how Ramsay kept his prisoners. Theon had folded his hands between his legs, but otherwise did not offer any resistance when Roose pulled his arm away, revealing a thick cock resting beneath dark curls, but something other missing. Roose cupped the shaft gently and let it roll on the palm of his hand, so that his finger could probe on the haphazard, makeshift work of Ramsay's meister where his testicles ought to have been. There were stitches still closing the skin missing, and even if he had remained silent for the rest of the examination, this was enough to make Theon hiss.

"This is new."

How kind of Ramsay. If Roose assumed him to have any intelligence of his own, he'd have thought Ramsay had the boy castrated to welcome him in town, a sharp jab at how Roose regarded Ramsay's claim to his title, and what he did to true lordlings.

As if Roose had forgotten what he'd done to his brother.

Well, no use mourning. Greyjoy would have no heirs anymore, albeit if Ramsay had the smarts to it, his family would not need to know.

"Yes, my lord."

"How did he do it?"

"The same way as everything else." Theon choked on his words.

"Theon," Roose warned.

"A– A band. I thought it hurt, at first. It hurt more later. I had to beg him."

"Did he use a clamp?"

"No."

"How long?"

"I begged of him to take it off."

"How long?"

"I don't know. An eternity, it seemed. It hurt. The cutting– it hurt more. It always hurts more. But the pain stops."

His finger probed further. Theon stilled when it neared his hole, tension seizing his body, only for him to breathe out and forcibly relax.

"Did he rape you?"

A heartbeat.

"No."

"There's bruising."

"I asked for it."

Although they were close, given the procedure, Theon's gaze was permanently fixed on the place where the mirror ought to be. A glimpse of light caught his reflection where his coat didn't cover; a flickering shadow crossed his face. He looked serene.

"I told you, my lord. He always makes me ask for it."

Roose removed his hand from between Theon's legs and pretended not to notice his tremor when he did so. The sheer, unwanted relief coursing through his frail body was unneeded.

"Ramsay was born of vice; one must not fault him for his bad blood. Now come," Roose wiped his hand before guiding Theon, "the water will chill if you do not hurry."

Certain habits were not unfamiliar to Roose, nor certain desires. Still, looking at Theon's spindly legs as he walked towards the tub, he could not find reason within his son's deeds. He remembered Theon, sitting by Robb Stark at the table. There was pleasure to be found breaking a hearty thing. Theon had been handsome, once. But to break did not necessarily mean to render completely dissociate from their past self, as all shattered pieces were distinctively part of the same previous whole. Something had to be left. Otherwise how could you call it a conquest, when the thing you created was left unattractive and dull?

The water was still warm to the touch, as he tested it with his elbow, after rolling his sleeves up. Easing Theon into it was the difficult part. He grasped and clutched and groaned in contact with the warmth, pleasure and pain mingling as his cuts burnt, but his aches soothed. He looked quite the old man. Would it not have been better to leave him to rot in a cell, forgotten until he went mad with the need for touch, but still handsome? Roose himself had daydreamed to twist his tongue off, given a few meetings where the giggling had become insufferable, but if Ramsay had enjoyed it so much as to break most of Theon's teeth, he could've done to leave his mouth clean of infections, at least. As with the rest of him.

Roose dipped a cloth in the tub, and begun to scrub.

It was gruesome work, but Lord Bolton was not averse to work in the least. For ages the Boltons had kept the Dreadfort, and this required not the easy life Ramsay was accustomed of, but a steady hand and a stomach that was not bound to be upset by their duty. Roose was not one to mourn for an ungrateful bastard of a son, but he could only think of what the future would bring to his House. More pleasant, then, to see Theon's skin grow cleaner as the water grew murky; to see the lovely bruises blossoming on him again, some anew as the vigorous strength of the handling made his papery skin tear. Almost like unwrapping a gift. A man's handiwork ought not to be hidden from plain sight. And as much as you could leave a commoner to be eaten alive by the filth infesting their wounds, a nobleman ought to be treated as such. So Roose scrubbed until Theon was as pink as their flayed banner, and far better looking than he ought to have, given the condition he'd arrived in. Were he not entirely useless to his family, Roose would have even entertained bending him over the chair and fucking him slowly, as for him to find pleasure in it. Poison tasted the sweeter with wine. But even this, Ramsay had taken away from him.

The towels were dark and patterned and soft to touch, and hug Theon like an oversized cape. He let go of them with remorse when exchanging those for clothing, albeit Willam Dustin's were a size too big on him, now that he'd lost much weight. The difference, however, was extraordinary.

"Look at yourself" he ordered, touching his cloak, before pulling it away from the mirror.

This time, Theon did not shy away.

"I'd say you look ready for dinner, Lord Greyjoy. I'm afraid our hostess is growing tired of waiting. Will you accompany me this time?"

"Yes," Theon said.

And, just like that, his son would have his legitimated bride, his servant, and Stannis' frozen head, to mount on a spike on the front of the Dreadfort. Roose stopped by Theon before they left the room, forbidding his passage.

"A last adjustment, if you will, Lord Greyjoy." Lord Bolton opened his palm. He'd fished a kraken out of his pocket; a brooch, salvaged from the utter desolation Ramsay had inflicted on Theon's men. Not gold nor silver, it was a heavy iron cast, but the more befitting for it. "To fasten your cloak with."

For the first time since Theon's arrival, the boy looked up at him, straight into his eyes. His were impossibly heated. Roose could not fathom why, but they urged him, in his stead, to turn away, disgust curling his upper lip in an unnatural display of emotion. The iron weighted on his extended hand like lead, fruit of Theon's contemplation, until finally–

Theon took the brooch, and with it, the name.

 


End file.
